Praevidentia
by elusivesilvercrystal
Summary: There was no moving of the earth. Time did not collapse. She was not ripped limb from limb, nor did she dissolve into the blissful nothingness she had craved... But the wand had snapped, quite neatly-irreparably; and thus the future was unwritten. "Gods save us", she hissed cynically to the useless fragments, as she would let the world burn before allowing the past to be repeated.
1. The End of an Era

**A/N: I am still writing The Devil's Tears, but this is another fic that has been festering in my files... I really love it and although it is far from being finished, I want it on here to motivate me to finish it. Do not expect regular updates! I am in school, after all. Otherwise, enjoy :)**

* * *

Prologue  
The End of an Era

"And you're _certain_ they're both there?"

Hermione Granger's face was pinched into a frown and her eyes were sharply narrowed. The man who stood before her was unrecognizable from the boy she had grown up with—he was still tall, brown of hair, and blue of eyes, but he lacked all the gangly limbs and jittering nerves that were what came to mind whenever she thought of Neville Longbottom. This Neville, a man grown, did not stutter, fumble, or whimper, and had spent the majority of the last seven years proving that he was much more than what he had seemed in his childhood.

His face was pale and lined deeply around his mouth. His eyes were plagued with black bruises and a sadness that resonated whenever she met them with her own. She looked away hurriedly, avoiding the creeping doubt in her gut, and scrutinized a crease in his shirt instead.

 _You can do this._

He nodded, "Yes—they're there. A large escort arrived a few hours ago—"

"How many?"

"Ten, maybe twelve. Malfoy was there. And Snape."

" _Fuck_."

The man didn't blink when she kicked the worn desk she had been leaning against and stormed across to the other side of the room. He did not flinch or squirm. Instead, he watched her closely and waited for her to straighten her shoulders once more.

"Nagini, as well," he added softly.

"Naturally," she noted tersely, "He hasn't parted from her since the last time."

Her frown turned into a scowl and she crossed her arms. In the same motion, she began to pace around the room once more. From the way her brow was furrowed and her jaw was tensed, she was thinking of a plan—or rather _the_ plan. It had been years since it had first formulated, and now it was finally coming to fruition.

"It's not worth the risk, Hermione."

She ignored his pleading look and the pain in her gut that reminded her of what she was going to have to face.

"It is worth the risk," Hermione said with a glare, "We've been waiting for this for years."

"Yes, but—"

She stood up to her full height. It was nowhere near enough to meet him at eye-level, but it was enough to make her feel a little more confident.

"What is there to lose, Neville?"

His face shifted for a moment and she recognized the little boy, clutching his Remembrall, and jittering as he spoke against her and her friends making the bad decisions they often made. She could see the sadness, even then, though no one else could. His life had never been what it should have been and she knew that even then he had faced darkness she would never have to. After all, her parents were already dead…

Now, today, he was standing up to his friend, still, because he was loyal and good despite the despair. But there was no determination or fire when he said it, because he knew that he wanted it all to end as much as she did.

There was no hope for happiness for him, or for her. How could there be any left, when all they loved was gone?

His jaw tensed when she was silent and he was flat-faced once more. His blue eyes grew hard, the sadness fleeing into the depths of him where they belonged, and he nodded, "Nothing to lose."

"Nothing to lose," she agreed, and set to work.

* * *

"You're certain?"

George Weasley had seen better days. His red hair was long, worn in the style of one of his late brothers, although it lacked the edge and flair of William Weasley's had. The length was the result of carelessness rather than out of fashion and had been left to fray at the ends. His freckled face was narrow—far too thin—and she wondered if he had bothered to eat at all that day. It was pushing on midnight, but he was wide awake and working when she found him in the basement, surrounded in a sea of parchment and phials.

"I am _very_ certain," Hermione answered.

"I've got a _few_ things that could come in handy, then," he replied, pressing the tip of his wand against his forehead as he tried to think of where exactly they were. There was somewhat of a familiar twinkle in his eyes when he then stood and headed to the corner of the cramped room.

With the loss of Severus Snape as their brewer (and spy), George had stepped in as the resident Potions Master. He lacked the same certifications and prestige, but was deserving of the title considering his great skill with concocting weapons and providing much needed healing draughts. Although he would sometimes disappear into his own mind, or the great depression that plagued most of their members, he was good at what he did… or at least competent at it.

Nowhere near as good as Snape, but Hermione didn't want to think about the traitor anymore than she wanted to think about all of his dead brothers.

Every inch of his workspace was covered in either cauldrons or vials, half-chopped ingredients, or bowls of forgotten slime. It was very dangerous to keep potions in such close proximity to each, and even more dangerous to have them within such a small space. But George was hardly one to care about whether they exploded or not. He was smart enough to at least keep the most volatile on separate ends of benches.

So…mostly good at what he did. She couldn't complain.

"There it is!" He produced a crate of potions from within. They were dusty, but appeared viable.

She grinned when she noted the labels and held out her arms to receive it eagerly.

"On one condition—" the redhead remarked, yanking the small chest back from her outstretched hands.

Hermione sighed loudly, but did not object.

"You humble me, O' Harpy," his smile widened, teasing at the nickname that the public had given her so many years ago, although it was not yet the trademark grin associated with the Weasley twin.

She began to object, fixing him with a glare more becoming of her title, "If it's anything sexual—"

"Always, Hermione," he replied with a wink, "I will hold you to your offer of sexual favors… _after_ this whole mess is over."

"Fine—what do you really want, though, George?"

He was rummaging through the packets on his desk.

"I want in," he said nonchalantly as he lifted a peculiar looking plant. It squeaked when he dropped it hastily back in its place.

"You want in?" She asked with a blink of surprise.

He nodded absently, although his smile was slightly devilish. In moments, he was standing and searching for something once more. After shoving a stack of blueprints to the ground, his wand was in his hand. It was dusty and unused, but when he grabbed it, sparks shot off the end.

Her heart felt heavy when she realized that the wand he had been wielding when she arrived was his twin's.

"Let's get this party started."

* * *

Four hours later and a small group was briefed and ready to deploy. Hermione waited in the foyer of Shell Cottage—one of four remaining safe-houses that had once been under the protection of the Order—as the others were just beginning to wake. They had all agreed to try and get some sleep before the agreed time of departure. George had disappeared—probably to visit the graves of his family, although this was more than risky, considering they had all died enemies of the wizard that now held control of most of Britain. She noted that he had tied a letter to the foot of the ratted owl they all shared. She knew it would fly for France, sending his love to Fleur and her beautiful daughter, the only other remaining descendant of Arthur and Molly Weasley, and promising that tonight, that night, he would avenge her husband and all his brothers, and his beautiful sister, whose death had swayed the war for the worst.

If she had any graves to visit, she would go. Ron was there, but things between them had never truly started when he died. It hurt to think about all that could have been, and that was enough to keep her thoughts on the task at hand. Avoiding her emotions was the only way she could keep from feeling the fear.

Neville was the first to wake. His face was solid and unreadable when he entered the kitchen, dressed in Muggle clothes, strapped with knives and spare wands. He had not slept—no. He had merely sat on his bed and stared out the window, just as she had sat in the kitchen chair and stared at the table.

"It's nearly eleven."

"Yes."

"Should I wake them?"

She nodded. Her eyes would not meet his.

"Hermione?"

She looked up. She was gripping her wand tightly and could feel nerves gathering in her belly.

His eyes were so sad—full of grief and despair. She didn't want to feel it, like he felt it. She needed the numbness now more than ever.

"We don't have to do this," he said, "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," she answered. She stood up and walked out the kitchen without another word.

* * *

"Waiting on you, Granger."

Hermione felt slightly agitated when she heard Pye's irritation through the mirrors she had enchanted, but did not comment back. She couldn't, actually, considering she had just finished throwing up and was furiously wiping her mouth.

"Hermione," Neville muttered, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, although it was choppy and her face had lost all color. They were standing at one of the few unblocked entrances of the Ministry of Magic, huddled into a bathroom. A Death Eater guard was laying at their feet, blood spilling from his mouth and onto his shirt. She had rushed to the next stall to hide from the evidence of what she had done and now was furiously trying to calm down long enough to push past the body and move forward.

When she emerged, she barely had it together and looked anywhere but the body crumpled on the tile. It wasn't her first kill, but the reality of it all had come crashing down on her when she had hexed him literally to the death.

"I'm fine," she said hurriedly.

Neville looked unconvinced and slightly worried. She sucked in a deep breath of air and released it—why was this any different than all the other times? Around any of the others, she could have kept her cool—would have furiously killed him and probably enjoyed it, too. If it were anyone but Neville, she would have continued on without a second look or thought about the man she had killed as she stepped over him, would have left him on display with her mark in his cheek. But around Neville…

Around Neville she felt like Hermione Granger again and that made her vulnerable.

Her mask had slipped and the look he had sent her out of the corner of his eye had been enough to send her reeling for the stall, shaking with disgust and grief.

Even after all they had been through and all he had seen, when she returned, he squeezed her elbow and gave her that familiarly meek look of his, and she was brought back to reality.

"We have to go," he reminded her.

"I know."

"You don't have to do this…" He didn't want to see her do it again, and she didn't want to do it again. But she would. They had to. She would atone for it all later, once the worst of the sins had been committed.

Her resolve returned, even as the familiar nausea swirled at the thought of her task, "Yes. I do."

Her wand was out when she stepped through the wall. His expression was quickly hardened, replaced with a solid determination.

She met it with one of her own, and then disappeared within.

* * *

"Cho's down."

Hermione cursed under her breath. Neville was at her back, saying a spell. The voice that spoke was shaky.

"Get her out."

"Can't—too many of them."

"We're nearly there—just keep—"

A spell landed at their feet and Neville pushed her out of the way, towards the door. They needed to retreat. George's distractions had only allowed them so much time and she needed to backtrack if she were going to make it through.

"Godric—" another voice, faded and weak, "—the snake is being evacuated."

Neville tensed at her back, having heard his psuedonym. She could feel the panic surge in his belly as it did in her own. They couldn't let the snake get away, not when they were this close.

"Which direction?" he spat as he ducked another spell. Hermione and he dove for the cover of a desk.

"Towards the Floo escape."

There was silence. Their enemy was regrouping. Neville's thoughts were flying a mile a minute and Hermione's too. She knew what he would choose to do.

"Hermione—"

"Go." She said with a determined look on her face.

Neville spared her a hard, sad stare, and then jumped up and ran away…

Leaving her to face it all alone.

* * *

She was stumbling down the corridor. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she could taste copper from having bit her lip. Her leg was screaming from the strain of her weight, but the adrenaline in her blood had begun to make her feel lightheaded and determined. She'd lost count of the men she had killed. Half of them had succumbed to her signature slicing hexes, and the other the killing curse, which she had mastered long ago. She had enough cold hate for it that night, but knew when she needed it most it would fail her.

To save the world, she had to kill her best friend and the thought made her ill.

She had been prepared for having to be the one—but she had not thought she would have to face both him and the dark lord. She had hoped, at least, that Neville…but he was already gone. She prayed that he had caught up to Bellatrix and Nagini… For the sake of every life in Britain, she prayed he killed both godforsaken creatures.

The corridor was empty when she arrived, but she could see the door was cracked. They were expecting her...

And there was no going back this time.

* * *

Just like Neville, Harry lacked the mannerisms of the boy she had met and known at Hogwarts. His hair was still unruly and jet black, but his skin was sickly white. His eyes, too, had changed. In the place of Harry's beautiful emeralds were a pair of glowing rubies. Voldemort's influence had robbed her of her best friend—and turned him into a willing servant.

" _Crucio_."

She endured the pain. She could endure it. She had to.

This was her punishment for being unable to kill him. She had tried—really, she had. But she couldn't do it. The spell merely fizzled and died when she said it… leaving her to endure the cackling laughter of Lord Voldemort himself.

But this was Harry. Her Harry. She had wasted years trying to find a way to free him, trying to find a way to redeem him from the control of the Dark Lord. But she was a failure. She had discovered, too late, that the only way he could escape his fate was for him to die...

And she was too much a coward to kill him.

The Dark Lord hovered in the background still, reveling in the taste of this sweet irony. Her capture was a dream come true for him. He had killed four of his enemies in one night and now, Hermione Granger—the Harpy—was suffering at the hand of Harry Potter.

"Can you smell it, Mudblood?" Harry said as he crouched down to her. His face was close to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek. It did not smell foul, but the coldness of it made her cringe. His hands were rough when he grabbed her by the hair and lifted her face to look him in the eye. She did not look into Harry's eyes, but those of Lord Voldemort.

" _Answer me_." It was the voice in the corner that spoke. She felt the chills in her bones begin to set as the effect of the Cruciatus lingered over her.

"N-no."

"No?" Harry said with a cock of his head, "I can. I can smell it in your filthy blood… it's my victory, you see. I've been waiting for your death for so long."

Hermione closed her eyes—she couldn't look at him any longer. She had been waiting for this day to come, when she could finally see the Dark Lord fall. Instead, however, she was welcoming death. She had failed for the last time and it would be sweet to finally be able to at least have some peace.

The world grew so still for a moment and she thought for sure she had died. But she was able to open her eyes and thus was alive.

With a strain of her neck, she looked around in confusion. Harry was no longer bearing over her like a phantom, but clutching his head—his scar—feet away from her. Behind him, the Dark Lord had begun to shout orders, but they were drowned by the screams of his followers. The circle of Death Eaters around them had all suddenly disappeared or fallen to the ground, clutching their throats or hearts in agony.

" _Avada_ —" Harry was no longer clutching his scar. His blood red eyes had flashed green once more. His wand was pressed to his forehead so quickly, she hadn't seen it happen. The Dark Lord roared in fury, in anguish in the background, "— _Kedavra_."

The words were said and could not be undone. The spell barely flashed considering his wand was pressed deeply into the skin at his forehead. There was the barest glow of green against his ghostly skin and then, it was gone and he was falling forward.

Hermione felt her heart shatter when Harry—her best friend—sunk to the floor. His eyes were open wide, staring out at the girl who had been unable to save him. They were greener than green, the eyes of his Mother, who had died protecting him… And he had died looking at her with them.

Her eyes left his to find the Dark Lord's. He was staring at her with his lip curled in disgust, the rubies squinted into thin lines of rage.

"You filthy Mudblood. You will _pay_."

With the flick of his wand, she was flipped over. She landed hard on her back. Her arms were pinned to the ground and she felt her head groan in protest as it had smacked into the floor on the impact.

"If I may, my lord…"

It was a smooth, velvety baritone—familiar, the voice of someone she had once known and respected. Someone she had trusted. The bile had returned to her throat at the thought that of all the Death Eaters to survive their efforts, it was him.

She had promised to kill him first, after all. She had promised he would die and in her haste to kill Harry she had forgotten that it was his death she had wanted the most.

She strained violently against the magical bonds, but they did not budge. She could see him standing over her, his aquiline nose was pointed towards his master, giving her a view of his nostrils and curled lip. He was inches away… inches from her reach… and she wondered if he was enjoying the fact that he had finally been granted his one wish—to see Harry dead.

"You _dare_ to defy me—"

"Quite gladly, actually," was the only reply, soft yet strong. _Defiant_.

"Watch your tongue, Severus!" The Dark Lord snapped.

Snape stepped over her fluidly and without fear. She was blinded from seeing anything as his robes darkened the world completely. He did adjust them to free her, but kept her from seeing the dark lord…

Shielded her from him.

"No."

" _What?_ "

Hermione felt the object drop. It landed with a thud on her chest, directly from the hand of Severus Snape. When she saw the glimmering gold, she almost gasped.

 _The last time turner?_

"You dare defy me? You know—"

"I know," Severus Snape spoke, "I know what measures must be taken to kill you. After all, I helped you get to this point of your immortality."

"So be it," the Dark Lord hissed.

Snape was already casting a spell by the time Voldemort attacked. His body moved with more grace than any she had ever seen. His voice commanded clear spells and deflected others curtly and carefully. The Dark Lord was visibly weakened—his favorite horcrux was miles away and his second had just been destroyed. Hermione's bonds began to weaken as his focus was drawn towards the duel.

The two circled each other around Harry's dead body in a sick dance of will and magic.

Hermione was able to move her arms and legs after a few moments. She tentatively sat up and clutched the object that Snape had dropped to her. She was tempted to use it, but something told her that it was not yet the right time.

A curse sent her rolling back to the ground. Harry had snapped her wand and so she could not deflect it except by raising her arms and ducking for cover.

"Stay back," Snape put his body in front of hers, just as he had all those years ago when Lupin had attacked. His body was spread in a way that suggested he would absorb any ill that came her way, werewolves and Dark Lords alike.

 _And so your loyalty was with the Order_ , she realized, as he kept his body between her and the circling, snakelike wizard. Either that, or he was shifting with the direction of the wind. But that would not explain how the Death Eaters had conveniently been indisposed just before Harry had…

 _Harry_.

Snape was stepping away from her, although he still stood in front of her. Voldemort had lifted his wand and a jet of something purple shot from it. Snape deflected it with a spell of his own—spurts of lights that burnt to look at and then struck like needles being thrown. One managed to hit its mark, slashing across the pale white face of the dark lord. He didn't even feel it—he did not curl in rage or flinch, but stepped through the slicing of his skin as if it were a gentle breeze.

His eyes erupted, however, and he snapped a spell that had Snape crouching and lifting a shield.

She crawled towards the crumpled body of Harry as the shield shimmered around Snape, protecting them all from a bombardment of projectile spells. She only allowed herself the barest of moments to close his eyes and then she grabbed his wand.

The woman she had become replaced the girl she had once been and she joined the fight with a furious hex. Snape's shield finally fell, and her spell circled the surface as it fell away before it broke through a gap. It shot towards the Dark Lord and actually managed to nearly hit him.

She did not expect him to react as quickly as he did. The spell he cast was minor, but with the power he wielded was so furious she could feel the impact from feet away. Snape stepped in front of it, in front of her. The curse—a phantom sword that glowed white-hot—shoved itself into his gut and emerged out of the other side before dissipating.

His dark eyes flared and with the last of his power, he waved his wand in a grand motion. From it, a great bird sprouted. It was fiendfyre—in the shape of a phoenix, the symbol of his rebellion. It blazed across the ground, lighting the surface on fire, and dove straight for the Dark Lord. He made to deflect it, but it burned so hot and bright and furious that he was unable to. Something flashed in his eyes—fear—and then he was obscured by the all-consuming flames.

Hermione found she could not look away, even as his screams struck into her soul. The licking flames bit at him, roiled around him in a blanket of _burning_ light, until he was a shrieking husk of charred bones and then a pile of smoking, silent ash.

She rushed towards Snape when he fell to his knees. The sword was gone, but the black pool of blood was enough for her to see that he was suffering. The fire began to die as she caught the Potions Master, swirling around into a small cyclone atop the remains of the dark lord. She lowered his heavy body to the ground, as tears fell down her cheeks. She was relieved and shattered at the same time and her body did not know how to deal with any of it.

"Professor…" She began to say, struggling to adjust him comfortably to the stone, and to gather enough wit to remember how to speak.

His dark eyes pierced hers, wide awake although a normal man would have been in shock. He struggled to speak, "Miss Granger—"

Her hands were pressing into his wounds. It would hardly held—it had pierced all the way through. He was bleeding out over her fingers and onto the ground. The only thing that was keeping him alive was the fact that he was a Wizard. The curse was meant to make him suffer and suffer he would—his magic would make sure to keep him alive as long as it could.

But the damage was irreparable.

She looked at him through a wave of tears. This was not what she had expected. This was not what she wanted. The Dark Lord was dead. Harry was dead. And now…

She was left to reap the victory alone. There was no one there to hold her hand and raise it over their heads as they cheered for the future and all it would hold.

"Why?" she asked in a half-wail.

It was a question for him, but also for whatever higher power had left her here to deal with this all alone, had left her with no hope, even as she had succeeded in the mission she had vowed to complete. She'd rather have died along with them…and could she? Would she be better off to follow them?

His hand came up and reached feebly for something, "Where is it?"

She shook her head, "What—no. I need to…" she was reaching for Harry's wand, trying to remember any sort of healing spell. _Don't leave me alone. Stay. Don't die. I can't…_

"It won't work," he said when she began to say one, "Stop it."

"No…" She was pressing on his stomach and crying. The blood flowed through her fingers, over her hands, as the tears fell freely and she began to stop. His eyes were pitch-black, so dark she could almost see herself in them.

" _Stop._ " His voice was so soft, a plea, and she sucked in a breath to calm herself.

Her professor—a man she had despised… a man she had condemned…reached for the object she had abandoned.

"It won't matter," she explained, "Time is—"

"Miss Granger, stop wasting your breath and my last moments explaining such a complex topic as time travel when you could be doing something _productive_." It was so Severus Snape that she couldn't help but laugh suddenly and nervously. He stared at her with a furious expression when the sound erupted, causing her to hide behind her hair, which had escaped from its braid, "Are you the Harpy or aren't you?"

When she was finally able to compose herself and look at him she was saddened. She was the Harpy, but somehow being faced with him again she was the insufferable, hopeful know-it-all who she had abandoned at Hogwarts so many years ago. His face was paler, although it should have been impossible. The skin of his lips was graying and his body was shaking. Even dying, he scowled…

He took the Time Turner and forced her to remove her hands from his gaping wound. He pressed it into her bloody fingers and she stared at their hands, which were clasped unnaturally together. His skin was cold and his fingers—long, elegant, but scarred—trembled.

Hermione knew he was dying and she wanted desperately to follow him. She knew death was just another adventure—the last adventure, and she was tired of being brave and selfless.

"You must use it," he explained, "Not only to save yourself, but to save us all."

"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head. _I can't go back. I can't go on._

" _Stop it_ ," he said suddenly—fervently. His eyes were swirling pools of ink and fury, "Stop thinking for a moment. Breathe."

Hermione shuddered and breathed in sharply. She had forgotten…her thoughts must be spilling out as easily as her tears. And he was a Legilimens; he had heard it, felt it. She felt ashamed and unburdened at the same time, but tried to still her mind. She could grant him that, at least, for the part he had played.

"It should have been my burden," he said tersely, grimly, when she had grown calmer and steadier. His eyes did not meet hers, "But now it is up to you. I can't deny that I am glad to die, but I would not wish this responsibility on anyone."

"Professor…"

His eyes closed briefly, as if he were trying to imagine something, "You must use it…"

"What—"

A sudden sound had her turning her head. Her eyes widened. The fire had not relented. It was rising…

"Professor—" His fiendfyre had broken free of his control when he had faltered. It had flared up from the smoking body of the defeated dark lord and begun to swirl around it wildly, vibrating with anticipation. The bird had turned into a serpent and it was hissing in their direction, twisting so quickly it hurt to look at, a whirlwind that had flattened and expanded and didn't show signs of stopping.

"I don't have much time," he said bitterly—and surprised her by smirking at the irony. He turned towards her. To her surprise, he reached out and touched her face, "Forgive my failures, Miss Granger. At least… at least it is you."

She found herself falling into his eyes—and there were flashes of memories. A boy standing in front of a girl with a crown of brilliant red hair and feeling mesmerized by the smell of her as she floated beside him, and then clinging to her lifeless body a decade later and begging to follow her. Hermione felt the same as he did, felt the failure and the need to repent in death.

She reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. It was wet with tears and she wondered if anyone would believe that she had seen Severus Snape cry and that it was a tragically beautiful thing.

"Take them," he commanded. She wasn't sure what he meant, until he had conjured a phial.

All the pain he felt was released in those tears, and she scooped them into the vial, as many as she could capture, but they were streaming so quickly down his face. His expression was slackened with the loss of them and he seemed to be almost at peace when the last of them trickled from his chin into the overflowing vial with a hiss of steam. Her own peace came from watching the tightness of his face slip away from him as she shoved the memories into her sleeve.

Dying wouldn't be so bad, if she were staring into his eyes. She had never noticed how beautiful they were, or that his nose was not quite as ungainly as it was characteristic, or that his chin was strong and his mouth quite pleasing. She hovered closer to him, trying to memorize the lines of his face and mouth and nose—trying to keep him in her memory, forever. However long that would last for her, she didn't know… but at least for that moment, she could have them.

Then the flames were closing in and she could feel the heat on their skin. Snape responded to it, as well, jerking up so that his nose was nearing hers. He was clinging to her arm and pushing her with the same motion.

"Please—take it." He shoved the object in her hands tighter, and his eyes sought the memories, and flickered with pain.

She opened her mouth to protest—she was as tired as he was. She wanted release. She wanted the peace he was feeling lingering at the edges. She wanted to see Harry's green eyes as much as he wanted to see the green eyes of his childhood friend.

He, however, lifted his hand. The last of his magic was used to create a small, quivering shield that kept the fire at bay while she hovered.

"I—"

" _Use the time turner, Hermione,_ " he begged. It was so desperate. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, and waited for him to bark at her again. Had he ever said her name before? She couldn't remember hearing him call her anything but "girl" or "Miss Granger"… "The Harpy."

She felt a hand on her cheek. For a moment, she let it stay there.

Flames licked at the edge of his shield. It wavered, and some spilled through, racing for them so rapidly she blinked and it was upon them.

He spoke quickly, now. His face had grown slack—peaceful, almost, although not quite. He wanted to meet death, she could feel the want in her own soul, but he wanted her to keep going on. How could she live while he died?

She clutched the Time Turner in her hand. She remembered Harry—that day in the bathroom on Halloween when their friendship had been sealed with fate and something else, and she knew she could not refuse a chance to see him again.

She held his gaze for a long moment, torn between trying to save him and leaving him to the roaring flames and also curling up beside him and letting them consume her, too, and wash her of all her sins. His eyes were so deep—hypnotizing and black—and she wanted to drown in them. Let the fire drown them both until they were ash in the wind.

"Go!" He roared, his face twitching into an expression of fury, stealing his beauty away. The flames had torn down the barrier and his eyes were wide and frantic, "Go, you stupid girl!"

She didn't hesitate any longer. She reached out to touch his cheek, even as the flames licked at her skin. His eyes closed as her fingers stroked his damp skin—sweaty from the heat and from the salty tears.

His eyes opened and he made to berate her again. Somewhere, however, she knew he was afraid to die alone, to be alone again. "Forgive me," she pleaded, wincing as her world burned painfully hot around her.

In the last moment, the fire that had surrounded them began to burn so hot she could hardly keep her eyes open. She did, however, and she watched as Severus Snape was consumed by the flames with a single guttural cry before time—and space—moved for her.


	2. Rough Landing

**A/N: Short chapter! Sorry, it's not like me... but sometimes, short and sweet is best. :) Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter One  
 _Rough Landing_

* * *

Unfortunately for Hermione, Snape's blasted Fiendfyre had not only escaped him in his death, but it had somehow latched itself onto the magic of the Time Turner. Before her body had even completely warped back into existence, the fire surged along the vortex, suspended around her in a pillar of furious light. When the magic ceased, the fire surged viciously, cascading her in flare of heat and light shaped vaguely like claws.

The pain she felt as it connected to her flesh was that which she had never felt the likes of—it far surpassed the Cruciatus, and was as equally as painful as rape, but much worse than childbirth. The fire sunk into her veins, seeking her magic as its fuel, although she resisted with every willing inch of her being.

Graciously, its life was quite brief—it receded in mere moments, the flames sucked into an unseen oblivion. She, however, was not unharmed. The slightest movement left her wincing in pain—the shock that had descended over her body during the battle with Harry and Riddle had already begun to recede by the time she had turned. Her skin was singed, melted in the worst of spots and peeling in the best, and would be far from pretty when or if she escaped. She was lucky it hadn't latched onto her magic and thus burnt her and the entire building to the ground with her as its fuel… lucky, she supposed, although Severus Snape had not been.

She couldn't imagine the pain had it continued, except… except that she had seen her dark savior being consumed by the same flames and knew he had suffered. Her heart clenched and she gave into some of the pain, feeling herself deserving of it.

At least here, in this time, there were no masked reapers (she had no doubt they would be lingering, as she knew she could not have gone _that_ far into the past). But there were also no good men crumpled on the floor beside her, either, and the one or two she had held in her arms were sorely missed.

Her eyes trailed towards the rows of Prophecies towering over her and she felt a twinge of confusion. The last time she had been there, the Prophecies had been destroyed—or at least, some or most of them (she had been so distracted trying not to die that she hadn't recalled an exact number).

The new world had no need of them, or so Madam Umbridge had cackled as she had ripped Hermione through the department for questioning, deep into the bowels where the experimentations upon Muggleborns were conducted. The Department of Mysteries had served as a fine dungeon of torture for the mud of wizarding society, after all—gone were the entreaties in the mysteries of magic, the studies of time and death and fortune. _This_ new order, Riddle's order, was more concerned with the torture of "magic stealers" than bettering themselves through research.

There had been death that day too, considering Hermione had left only when she had sliced Dolores Umbridge's so many times she had lost count. Her memories trickled towards darker days—days when she was not even half herself—and she knew if she faced them she would not leave this ministry, the ministry of the past, alive.

There had been another battle, too, when she was much younger, and it had been less vicious but equally as harrying as the day that she killed the toad. Hermione had been here so many, many years ago and she had been so young, yet still dying in a different way after a battle with evil. That time had been as equally as disconcerting as the last, as they were both very symbolic of turning points in her life.

For her, the Department of Mysteries would always be a place of death and dying, of pain and grief, of the loss of innocence and hope. That hadn't changed, although she had very much changed each time she had visited it.

Despite the Department of Mysteries' current bland indifference towards her personal chaos—the neat rows of shelves upon shelves of glittering orbs and a heinous bright light burning somewhere in the distance were all unremoved by her presence—she could not shake the aura of despair that descended upon her, thinking she would finally die here as she should have a decade ago.

It was only fitting that she would die in the place where she had not only first set her wand to fight the Death Eaters, but also where she had sold her soul for vengeance… where her want for bloodshed had first outweighed her orderly sense of justice and thus led them to collide and twist into the Harpy she was now.

 _What does it matter?_ A tired part of her insisted, _you're closer to death than ever and why not here?_

Truly, why _here_?

Why was she _here_ and not _there—_ not somewhere safer?

He had no idea who or what had decided to send her here, although she could very easily blame Severus Snape. Of course, he would send her into the depths of the ministry, where Voldemort's followers bred like the vermin they were. She wondered if she could escape without detection, or if she was there for a purpose… was she to achieve some heinous deed?

Perhaps she would find Neville and kill the snake—wait for him outside of the chamber and together, they could pursue the last horcrux, considering the others would be dead not soon after. Her heart felt heavy when she thought of the world she was going to have to face: without Harry, without Ron, without… it felt ashen, worthless, hopeless.

When she closed her eyes, however, _he_ was cradling her cheek with his narrow, calloused fingers and she could not help the swell of tears and comfort. If she lived to see him again, she would punch him for putting her in this position to feel such treacherous emotions again.

 _Save us all…_

And how was she supposed to do that?

"Oh."

The voice was soft, feminine, flowery—but there was a strength to it that Hermione recognized. She didn't have the will to fight, nor protest—but she could not afford to be detected and turned over to… well, Umbridge if she was alive.

 _Could it have been 3 years?_ Hermione wondered. She hoped not. There were some memories that she just did not want to relive, ever again…

She sat up, although it was difficult to do so, and reached for her wand.

The woman halted in her approach, but she was obscured in the halo of that blasted light. Hermione raised her… Harry's wand—"Stay back!"

But then she felt a wave of nausea and she swayed. Her heart pounded. She prepared for the stunner that awaited her—any trained Death Eater or other devout would have her bound in seconds. Her face was recognizable, having been designated Undesirable Number Two and then One for nearly a decade.

Rather than a curse, however, it was a steady hand that affronted her. Nimble fingers stroked a place on her forehead. Hermione imagined it as the last touch of Severus Snape and through him she saw the dying light of Harry's emerald eyes in his mother, Lily. She gasped and battled for control of her addled brain, wondering if she had fallen prey to unconsciousness.

Her eyes opened reluctantly; the hair that was not blackened was gently pulled away from a section of skin that was not blistered over her shoulder by a vaguely familiar woman. The hair was not as wily, but soft and flowing still, silvery. She had the same cheeks and eyes as Hermione remembered last, but the dreamy look was gone.

"Luna?" She murmured, in shock.

The woman's gaze narrowed, but she quickly snuffed it.

"How did you get down here?" She inquired stiffly, her compassion wavering in suspicion.

Hermione didn't dare answer—she wouldn't believe her, anyways. This wasn't Luna, although she had to have been related to her.

The woman did not press the issue, but rather carefully surveyed her wounds. Although most of her body had been protected by her raised arms, some of her skin was badly burned—it was worst around her forearms, but had also caught the exposed left side of her face and part of her neck and shoulders. Her robes were now ruined, burnt and fraying, melting to her skin. Her hair was partly singed off.

"You've been burned badly," the woman noted.

Hermione made a derisive sound, as if to say _Really? I hadn't noticed._

The woman did not seem offended, but her face was twisted into a fascinated expression, "Strange…"

Hermione felt the intrigue, but tried to swallow it.

The woman indulged her regardless, "It's almost as if—as if magic deflected it from your face."

She reached out a hand, curling around Hermione's cheek, but not touching it. Hermione instantly thought of Snape and her gut clenched… he had known what would happen. He had… spared her from complete disfigurement, at least. She wanted to vomit, then, and surged forward, crumpling with emotion and pain. The woman caught her in her arms, letting out a crooning sound despite her initial disapproval.

There were tears then and eventually sick, which was vanished quickly away. Then someone was taking her by the hands, gently, trying to avoid the flesh that was deteriorating but still willing her to stand. She should have grabbed her wand, but instead she was searching for comfort and squeezing the warm, soft flesh, clinging to it as if she hadn't felt another's touch in centuries.

This was not a Death Eater, this was not the recent past. She'd gone very far back, indeed. Very far. Her mind was racing, calculating… trying to remember.

 _George_ , she lamented suddenly, knowing he was dead for her and yet not… and _Neville._

The latter—the last Weasley—had already been lost to her in that battle, but Neville… gods, she had left him to fend for himself in their wretched future. She would never know if he had succeeded in killing the snake, or followed the others to martyrdom. She would never be able to help him. Unless…

She fought off the woman, searching with her hands, and then ignoring the physical world for Harry's wand. With it, she called for the Time Turner.

" _Accio_ ," she said weakly. Somehow, it obeyed and flew to her hand. But the use of magic was strange—it felt tense, in a way, as if someone had drawn a rubber band and any moment it would snap. She felt instantly dizzy and swayed; her fingers only barely stuffed the Time Turner—burning hot, into the folds of her blood-stained robes.

Rather than try to steal it from her, feather-light fingers padded through her wiry, hot hair, crooning a soothing song, drawing her back to the land of the living, away from the spirits that only seemed to grow in number to haunt her.

The eyes that she strained to hold with hers were familiar—blue, silvery blue, and naturally wide and undoubtedly Luna's. A soft, kind face, framed by wispy blonde hair that, to Hermione, looked like a halo, was smiling at her, rather than frowning in disgust. There was compassion in those eyes, and a natural, ethereal wisdom. She wore the robes of an Unspeakable, but she had the face of an angel.

"Welcome back, I suppose," the woman said warmly, with a small, tight smile and a crinkle of her eyes. It was like balm to a burn, to be smiled at like that—motherly… to be treated with kindness untouched by paranoia or obligation.

Hermione's brain began to catch up and she realized the severity of her situation. She had just traveled through an undetermined time without Ministry clearance, had landed in a past she knew much about but could do nothing to change. She was in the Department of Mysteries, and an Unspeakable had found her clutching a time turner, burned half to death with dark fire. Some of the blood on her person wasn't hers; buckets of it were Snape's… although she had been burned, nothing could remove the reddened stains of his blood around her knees, stomach, hands… in her hair and on her face.

The Ministry, if it were competent would try to divest the valuable information she had. If they were intelligent, they would kill her quietly before they could. Her very existence here could tear the fabric of time apart… couldn't it?

 _Time is fixed_ , a logical part of her urged. She had learned that third year, when the events that had spared Sirius Black had been of her own hand hours later and yet hours before they had occurred. Even today, it baffled her brain just slightly, contemplating the reasoning behind it all.

 _Why this far?_

 _"You must use it," he explained, "Not only to save yourself, but to save us all."_

Gods, she had no idea what she was supposed to do to change the future—to "save us all" as he had said, especially in this time—and instead of using her brain to figure it all out, she was whimpering on the floor like a child, cradled in the hesitant embrace of the witch. Hermione began to reach for her wand again, to escape, but a hand—stronger than it looked—grabbed her wrist, carefully avoiding the injured flesh, and squeezed once more.

"I'm not going to call for the Aurors," the woman said sincerely, sensing her anxiety to be caught.

Hermione felt the pain surging again—but she pushed it away, bit it down harshly and without remorse. It compared little to the gut wrenching she felt when she realized she had left her savior to die, alone, without comfort, and at herself for accepting the fate when she should have followed him. She would have much rather stayed with him, than be here, in this place, this strange, beautiful world—she should have died with him… she should have told him to bugger off and let her choose her own fate.

She certainly wouldn't have picked this hopeful, innocent time— _that_ was for damn sure. She hardly wanted to relive it when she had seen so many terrible, terrible things.

It was a peculiar sort of punishment—to flaunt the best of her life in front of her when she knew it would very inevitably crumble to dust.

But gods, didn't she deserve peace after… after everything? Didn't she deserve to see her friends—not their possible selves, their past selves, but the people she had known and lost—for one last time, or perhaps not at all… she was set for hell, while they certainly deserved paradise. It was a fate she had accepted, a cross she bore willingly.

But now wanted desperately to shed… she wanted more than anything to see Harry—to see Ron… and Rose. She wanted, for the first time in her life, to hold her blessed Rose in her arms.

She resolved that she would follow them quickly enough, considering the white hot pain she was enduring. Her brain was drifting towards blackness, drawing her towards an oblivion she hoped would never end. She wanted to die, of course—had wanted that for a long time.

But then the woman was pulling her up, careful to avoid the burns on her shoulders and back, choosing instead to grip her by the elbows.

"You can trust me," the woman murmured, but it was Severus Snape's voice she heard, and the warm magic of his hand charming her face free of the flames he could no longer deflect… the flames he had created both for himself and his ill-fated master.

Hermione sobbed—the movement made her skin shriek and she was beginning to feel dizzy again. The pain was no longer numb, but blazing. The shock was fading with every movement she existed.

"There will be use for you yet, I daresay," the woman mused to herself as she gathered her in her arms and stood, "Come now, or it will have all been for naught. Don't let them die in vain."

Hermione was reminded of Luna Lovegood when she spared her gaze towards her enveloper. The way her lips turned upward and her eyes went all glazed as she thought deeply were entirely the loony Ravenclaw she had only faint memories of, after all these years.

She gritted her teeth as she fought to keep control of her mind, of her body, of her pain, even as the woman persisted to bear her around like a doll. Her flesh was screaming—screaming like Lord Voldemort had, when his had been scorched to ash. Snape had not made a sound… perhaps he had died before the first of his flesh bubbled away.

Hermione's vision swam and she collapsed into the waiting arms of the Unspeakable, imagining her flesh as his until she was slipping into the lulls of unconsciousness.


	3. Awake

**A/N: Here we are!**

Chapter Two  
Awake

 _"I don't want anywhere near that filthy Mudblood!"_

 _"For Merlin's sake, you're not afraid of the bitch, are you?"_

 _"Are you kidding? She's been laying there like that for two weeks—hardly terrifying! C'mon, now… I took care of the last one—"_

 _"Yeah, the last_ nobody _. I'm not an idiot... I know_ who _she is_."

 _"Oh-ho, who's bloody afraid of the twat then?"_

 _"Just—go on, now. I'll tell everyone how gracefully you manhandled the Harpy herself!"_

 _"Wouldn't you rather have the honor?"_

 _"No, you're free to do it yourself—"_

 _"No, you—"_

 _"You!"_

 _"You!"_

 _"Y… Merlin—Master Snape, sir…"_

 _"We were just—"_

 _"Disappear… now."_

 _"We have orders—"_

 _"As do I... Imperio."_

Hermione groaned and shifted. Her first thought was pain—intense pain. Her heart began to beat faster— _where am I?_ —and she jerked upward. Her vision was as dull as her thoughts, and the only thing she could make out was the ceiling above her head which was a dull, soft blue. A wispy-white cloud fell over her and she blinked in confusion… When she closed her eyes, she saw the cold gray steel of a cell and she squeezed her eyes tighter to drown the sight in blackness.

 _"Professor…"_

 _"Give me the child."_

 _"Please… no. Please…"_

 _"The child."_

 _"You were one of us!"_

 _"Don't make me stun you, Miss Granger."_

 _"Please… I can't… it's my fault… take me instead."_

 _"Stupefy!"_

She blinked her eyes open—the voices she had heard were echoes that she had not recalled ever before. Hermione couldn't remember ever having heard them, but they were vivid enough to make her wonder if they were more than just a dream… somewhere between memory and fantasy. She felt the odd sensation of dizziness when she tried to press further—as if a part of her did not want to remember… or someone had attempted to make her forget.

Her brain was straining too hard, however, and it was so heavy. Weighted lids drifted closed once more and her mind reached for release from the surging aches in her body…

 _She was trying to fight with all of her might, but the curse that Umbridge had cast prevented her from moving. The only thing she could feel was the beating of her heart and the shallow breaths that slipped into her lungs. Then the wild movement of her eyes as she tried, vainly, to find some means of escape._

 _Nothing else mattered—she just needed to get away from them._

 _Her stomach fluttered wildly. She prayed—prayed to a God she did not believe in, that she could live—if not for her then for—_

"She's awake! Pandora _?_ Pandora!"

Although the burning sensation was at her shoulders, she was feeling a different clenching sensation in her abdomen… the rational part of her reminded her that this was a phantom pain, however—the memory of pain, of pain she had felt years ago and yet could never forget. When she heard a soft voice, her mind slipped deeper into the blackness…

And yet the pain did not go away.

 _"Please!"_

 _Hermione was bargaining now—she'd given up all hope of a fight… her arms felt leaden and weak. Her brain felt like it was on fire—plucked clean by Umbridge's little rat Zabini. The bastard was gone, however, leaving the toad to tend to her once more. She briefly wondered if she would prefer the torture to the short, feminine coughs at regular intervals._

 _"This is the punishment for you actions of treason, Miss Granger," the woman smiled sweetly as she always had. She was, after all, merely exacting the revenge she had planned for the girl for half a decade._

 _"I didn't ask to be born!" The witch sobbed, praying she could plead, but losing her temper despite it all._

 _"No, that is not against the law, of course—but evading registration is against the law amongst…" the woman sneered down towards her abdomen, "… other crimes."_

 _"Please… please," she moaned._

 _They had given her something—a potion, or a couple, or perhaps even half a dozen—she couldn't remember. They had held her for days, now—at least it felt like days. She was running out of time, she feared… running out of hope._

 _There is always hope, she tried to reason… at least, at the moment, there was a single flicker of hope yet._

 _Two of the death eaters stepped forward and strapped her down with spells—hands, feet. Another wizard was there—donned in lime green robes. Although his hands were steady, when she met his eyes she could tell he was distressed… well she assumed he was distressed. He_ had _been imperiused._

 _"Stop… please, stop! Have you any mercy?"_

 _"Proceed."_

 _"_ STOP _!"_

"Tip her head back! _Xeno_!"

Hermione refused to be held down. Umbridge would poison her—drug her. She could not let that happen.

"I'm trying, love, but she's bloody strong—"

"Just… keep her from thrashing, alright? She needs the Calming Draught—"

Hermione attempted to yank her arm out from the man's grip. She lifted her knees, trying wildly. It connected with his gut and he wrenched back. Magical bindings, however, prevented her from breaking free. They strained against her wrists. Her arms screamed when she tensed and turned her head away from the potion the woman had tried to slip her as her husband writhed in pain to the left.

Wandlessly, the captive witch sent the potion flying across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered. The wizard ducked, then whipped out his wand.

" _Stup—_ "

" _Xenophilius Lovegood_! Don't you finish that spell, or so help me Merlin…."

"She could have hurt you— _could_ hurt you."

Hermione was breathing hard, trying to bite back the sob that caught in her throat as they argued over whether to stun her, feed her Draught of Peace, or simply continue the previous course of action.

The pain was excruciating. Her skin was burning hot and it stung like someone had poured alcohol into a thousand tiny paper-cuts all along her back, shoulders, neck and a part of her face.

"Dora, she's dangerous—"

"I know that, but… just give her a bloody chance! Do you trust me or not?"

"I trust you…"

"Then help me!"

His reply was silence, but they both knew that he was submitting to her instructions once more.

Hermione could feel the tension settle, but Xenophilius was still hesitant when he came beside her. He held his wand in a defensive way… she tried not to flinch when he waved it. Another potion appeared, summoned from a store elsewhere. It floated into Pandora's hands.

She breathed through her nose, trying to fight the urge to slice them to pieces. The pain proved to be too much and she shuddered, before she fell unconscious once more.

 _Her knickers were soaking wet, and she wished someone would remove them, but it was simply another form of torture._

 _The pain was coming again—building, surging, breaking her apart from the inside out. The wizard had shed his lime green over-robe and was now working meticulously at her abdomen._

 _"Now, now," the witch soothed back the hair from her face—Hermione choked on the vomit that arrived at being_ comforted _by the witch, "We mustn't let you keep her, after all? She is a half-blood… tainted, but valuable."_

 _"I should have killed you," Hermione shrieked. When she saw the red leaking from the wound in her gut, she screamed, "Let Grawp crush you to dust! Let the centaurs rip you apart!"_

 _Umbridge's stretched smile widened even as she wept._

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

Hermione sat up sharply. She was all fists and teeth and anger—prepared to claw and bite her way out of the prison they had brought her to.

But instead of masked reapers, she found herself faced with two blinking, frowning and quite disarmed people. The woman from the ministry was there—she no longer wore her ministry issued robes or a comforting smile. The man at her side was easily recognized by Hermione, as she had met him before, many years ago… and yet, not quite.

The tears had already begun to fall down her face—products of memories she had buried deep beneath years of frigid, calculated fury. In those days leading up to the mission, leading up to her planned murder of Harry Potter, she had cracked slightly… it was the first time in years that she had felt like the girl she truly was: frightened, innocent Hermione Granger, who had wished for freedom for house elves.

She had died years ago, but somehow, being in this time, made her feel vulnerable again.

"It's alright," the woman urged, "We are not going to hurt you."

"I know," Hermione answered bitterly, shuddering from the sensation of cold sweat layering every inch of her body, "I know."

Xenophilius looked put-out (probably still sore from the kick she had given him who knew how long ago) and he gestured towards his wife with urging hands. She ignored him, and instead reached stubbornly towards Hermione. The witch itched away from her, flinching slightly.

"Please," the witch began to say, circling around the bed where Hermione was lain, "I need to check the wounds…"

Hermione stared down the kind-faced woman, and briefly thought about running….

It would be easy. She knew the land around this house. It would be so very simple to steal a wand and run. After a quick mentalpat of her person, she knew that she did not have the memories, or Harry's wand, or…

"Where is it?" She said darkly.

The witch made a face of uncertainty, before she reached into the drawer beside Hermione. All of her possessions were there—including the Time Turner.

She relaxed, then nodded to the witch her permission to tend to the wounds.

"It's permanently damaged," the Unspeakable told her as she pulled back the bandages, "The Time-Turner."

"And me," the captive witch joked. Pandora turned and lifted a brow, but said nothing more. Hermione laid her head back and glared at the ceiling, wondering about the irony of it all.

Xenophilius looked immediately uncomfortable as she was tended to by his wife. When a child cried somewhere within the house, he jumped at the chance to retrieve her. The woman, his wife, watched him go, then returned to her patient with the same deftness as before, although her features were slightly sad.

"Forgive my Xeno," Luna's mother told her as she applied a layer of balm over the burns. Hermione tried not to show her pain, but it was excruciating; the witch did not lend any indication that she noticed and continued in a confident, undisturbed manner, "He is not accustomed to having guests."

"Why are you helping me?" The skeptic witch muttered.

"Does there need to be a reason?" the witch murmured as her nimble fingers glided down the edge of the bandage, resealing it to her skin, "I hadn't pegged you for Slytherin—"

"I'm not a Slytherin," the injured witch interjected, shrugging slightly to adjust to the new layer of skin the bandage offered her.

The silvery-blue eyes of her captor crinkled, "No, that's quite clear now."

Hermione relaxed slightly, her mouth frowning, "I'm sorry… I know that was prejudiced of me. You have to understand—"

"Of all people," the witch told her as she straightened the bathrobe around the woman's shoulders in a motherly manner, "I understand. As a Slytherin myself, and quite the unpopular one, I know that the distaste for my house-mates is very often deserved."

Hermione winced, "I'm sorry—"

"I'm not," the woman replied, "Apparently, not much has changed in the future if my house mates are still making the same trouble for themselves."

At that, the witch was quiet once more… it was bad enough she had traveled to the distant past, and worse that it was not a secret.

"My name is Pandora, by the way…" her silvery eyes met Hermione's dark brown, "Or did you already know that?"

"Not exactly," Hermione admitted. She had known her daughter's name, but not hers. Pandora… it suited her, just Luna had suited the younger silvery-haired witch, "I know you're a Lovegood."

"By marriage, yes," the woman admitted, "A Rowle by birth."

 _Rowle…_ the only Rowle she had known had been a Death Eater. Hermione looked away, attempting to hide the anger that bubbled at the thought of Voldemort's damnable followers.

"And you?" The Rowle-Lovegood asked.

Hermione did not hesitate before she answered, "Harmony… Harmony Gray."

There was a flicker in the gray eyes of the Unspeakable—she knew Hermione was lying… but she did not complain.

"Harmony… it suits you. And how far did you travel, Harmony?"

Hermione glared up at the sky-blue ceiling, "What year is it?"

"1986."

"19—" Hermione began to say, then stopped, took a deep breath, and released it with a whispered, "I've traveled roughly twenty years, then."

The witch's eyes widened, "Twenty years?"

She tossed back her head in despair… not far enough. Had he truly wanted her to save them all, Snape should have sent her back twenty five years, to the day that Voldemort had tried to kill Harry's parents. How different would the world be if that day had never happened… if she could kill the bastard herself and then hunt for the Horcruxes?

 _Tough luck,_ a voice urged, _the future is fixed._

 _Is it?_ Another wondered.

The thought of reversing all that had happened to her was unnerving to say the least. With it came memories that were both painful and happy—some she would give anything to erase and others to relive.

But they were in the past—whether that past would once again become the future would depend upon her.

And the weight of that notion was crippling.

"You should rest…"

"I don't know if that's possible anymore," Hermione whispered.

The eyes of her savior softened and she reached out, pushing stray curls out of the time traveler's face. In her other hand, she held a vial of Dreamless Sleep. Hermione wanted to refuse it… but another part of her knew she needed sleep if her body was to heal properly.

"Tomorrow will be a new day," the Unspeakable murmured when Hermione threw back the potion.

Dark eyes met silver and held them for a long moment.

"That's quite a relative statement, don't you think?" She muttered laboriously before her head fell back against the pillow.

Pandora smoothed feather light fingers over her unmarred cheek and smiled when her dark eyes drooped closed, "We shall see."


	4. Unwritten

**A/N: Happy Sunday!**

* * *

Chapter Three  
 _Unwritten_

* * *

She hadn't set foot in the Leaky Cauldron since… well, since _before_ the dark lord rose to his seat of power.

It was not so different now as it had been then, or then as it was now. The pub boasted the same stained tables and foggy air in 1986 as they had in 1991 and would for decades in the future. The patrons still wore the same clothes and used the same spells and argued the same arguments as they had for centuries, as they would for centuries more.

But the air tasted different than she remembered... cleaner, lighter. She supposed the lack of a megalomaniac dictator suited Magical London well, but she found it no longer suited _her_. Smiling, laughing people huddled in the Leaky and gossiped with each other, drank their ale and sang songs, unaware that she had seen death and carnage and war. She was affronted by their ignorance… envious, mostly, but also disgusted with how foolish they all seemed.

People didn't meet her eyes in her time, or smile at her as they did nervously when they caught her staring today. The trusting nature of these people irked her… made her feel out of place. Strangers kept to their own in her time, with their heads down or turned only towards the people they hoped and believed they could trust with their lives.

 _Are you really doing this?_

 _I'm really doing this._

She walked past the oblivious, trusting fools, who were ignorant to the fact that she held the fate of their futures in her hands, and felt like the odd witch out. Would anyone see her and remember her a few years down the line, when a younger version of herself would bounce along the streets with a stupid sense of wonder? Probably not, considering how tightly wound and scowling she now was and the glamour she had cast, making her appear blonde and rosy-cheeked.

Even without the glamour, she now hardly looked the same as _that_ Hermione Granger… the bouncy, innocent one.

The reflection in the window adjacent to her was evidence of that. Not only was she much older, but she was also sharper... rougher. Most of her scars were covered by the cloak or with magic, but some of them bled upward towards her neck, blooming around the curve of her face, which Snape had protected. If one was looking hard enough, beneath the shimmer of smooth blonde curls, they would find a face that was very angular, quite unlike that of her younger self, and eyes which were shadowed and dark. The curls she sported (although now blonde) were more defined than ever, although they still sprung from her head like Medusa's snakes.

She swiped her fingers through the curls, shorter now as Pandora had been forced to cut the singed bits off. She had been able to spare most of the length, but the witch had not worn it this way for years... still, she was Hermione Granger and she could care less for vanity. Hair was hair.

Without another glance towards her reflection, she headed immediately for Ollivander's. It was strange and refreshing to walk in public without the fear of being recognized or followed, but the tension she felt was not gone... she still felt like _Undesirable Number One._ That, and her skin was still pink and it itched like hell beneath even the silky clothes that Pandora had given her.

 _Maybe you are not ready for this... perhaps you should turn around,_ a voice urged.

 _And what? Run for the hills? Flee to France, across the pond? I'll never be ready!_

 _Exactly... hence, why you should turn around and leave time to run its course._

 _No._

 _You're a fool... a little fool._

 _I made a promise._

 _Still a fool._

As if it could banish her thoughts, she slipped the hilt of her wand into her palm. Suprisingly, it was warming up to her—in fact, it was growing attached to her, as if it sensed her desperation and was responding to it. Just holding it soothed her enough to keep her from falling apart on the cobbled street outside the wandmaker's—it was a sight for sore eyes, his shop was. She tried not to think of the death the wand she now cradled had caused, but wondered if it would be a new beginning for it as this was for her… if she could prevent the tragedy of the Second War with it.

As she stood in front of the shop, Neville's echoing voice arose from the back of her mind, "Nothing to lose."

 _Oh, but isn't there?_ Another teased. It sounded suspiciously like Snape, and she agreed: there was much to lose, but whether or not she could do anything about that depended on this little experiment she was about to perform.

Her nerves jittered when she entered Ollivander's; she didn't know why she cared whether it would work or not and bit them back as easily as she would have back... well, back in her own time.

The man she had known in her youth appeared well, waiting patiently behind the counter for her to approach him with a polite, if distant smile. His hair was wiry and wild and gray and twinkling in that way she had found disturbing as a child, but endearing as an adult. His eyes—watery and almost translucent—reminded her of Malfoy's and she wondered if somewhere along the line he was related to the Black family.

"Good afternoon," he greeted owlishly.

She nodded in return, "Mister Ollivander."

"What can I do for you, my dear?"

She placed the wand on the table in front of him—he watched it carefully. Although she had been slow and deliberate, he was not so stupid to not be wary of a stranger, even though the war was nearly ten years gone. Strangers were as good as enemies once you'd endured the horrors of battle…

He must have recognized it in her, too, by the way his eyes swept from the wand to her arm, her burns revealed just slightly, and then politely back to the wand.

"I've recently come across this creature. I was wondering if you could tell me about it?"

He touched one finger to the tip and the other to the end and lifted it, pushing the wood inward as he did. It was not very pliable. It was not short, but not long. The handle was carved crudely, sharply, in a jutting twisty corkscrew that ended in a sharp point that would be considerably painful if it was jabbed into someone. It was not artistry, exactly, but was profound enough that Ollivander traced the curves of it with his fingertip and hummed when he barely touched the pad of his finger to the needle-like end.

Hermione was reminded of a Muggle Fairy-Tale… the one with the spindle.

 _If I prick my finger, will I ever wake up from this strange dream?_ She wondered to herself. Perhaps if she did, she would be able to face reality again, considering what she was hoping to accomplish could possibly tear the fabric of time into shreds…

Or, at the very least, place the fate of their world in her hands, which was arguably far more frightening.

"Ash," he decided, "Eleven and a quarter in length…. Roughly."

He seemed amused by the lack of accurate estimation, due to the corkscrew hilt.

"The core?" she inquired.

He seemed uneasy, "Ah, well—I am fairly certain that it is a dual-core, quite out of fashion in this day and age, but it _is_ quite old. Stalk of Dittany and Manticore Barb, I deduce?"

He cast a neat spell with it, although the wood vibrated violently and nearly jerked away from him.

His eyes were alight when he returned it to her, "Surprisingly powerful and rebellious for a Dittany wand, yet not as disloyal as the Manticore Barb... a curious choice."

"Curious," she agreed.

He turned the hilt towards her, and she took it, and slipped the wand away without a blink. When she did not leave, he stared at her, his eyes searching her expression with wary curiosity.

"There's no charge," he said, almost hastily.

She smiled gently—what she hoped was gentle.

"I was actually wondering—I'm in need of a backup wand, you see… this one's allegiance is proving hard-earned."

It was half a lie. He did not indicate he detected it, however.

"Ah, of course," he nodded, "The wand chooses the witch. You mustn't force such things."

"Indeed…" she noted sadly, "That being said, I would like a dragon heartstring wand—ten and three quarters inches. Vine, with a decorative embellishment throughout."

Ollivander looked offended for a moment. He looked her over before he disappeared into the stacks of wands. When he returned, he hesitated.

She placed the payment on the counter—she knew exactly what it would cost.

"Miss—"

"Gray," she replied, "Harmony Gray."

It was the same alias she had given Pandora, and one she had agreed with herself to use here. If there was a chance that she would be remembered down the line, it could possibly spare the younger Hermione Granger a lot of trouble and hearteache.

"Miss Gray," Ollivander said. He took the payment, "Wouldn't you like to—"

She shook her head, "Thank you, Mister Ollivander, for your effort. I am pleased with this choice."

As if to reassure him, she lifted the wand and allowed sparks to spurt from the end.

Still, he looked perplexed, and only barely tilted his head to her when she left the shop, both wands shoved into her pocket.

When she was a distance away, she dipped into an alley, slightly breathless. She didn't know why she was waiting—she could have done it in the shop, in front of him, although that seemed a bit rude to do... he _had_ created this wand, after all, and she knew he remembered all the wands he made. But she didn't want questions, or rumors, or links back to this moment in time.

Not that anyone else would understand the significance of her planned action... not even Pandora.

Although the world would not know it, it felt like fate that she was holding this wand. She was _meant_ to have it.

And although she hadn't held it in years, it was as if it had never left her was a special place in her heart for her first wand and, although she would not realize it until she lost it, she knew it was made for her. Sadly, she stroked the vines that wrapped about it prettily. They were the same winding vines, in the same patterns, in the same colors... identical to her memory. The embellishments were comforting when she gripped it in one hand—she remembered the weight of it perfectly, the grooves against her palm and fingers. It sung when she raised it to eye-level—it wanted her, again.

But, thanks to an unfortunate series of events, it was not meant to be. Not again.

With the swiftness of a viper, before she could think better of it, she took the other end in her other hand, fingers wrapping harshly around the tip, and pulled both ends towards each other until the wood cracked with a sickeningly sharp sound.

The heartstring within had been dried, but it was still red—the color of blood. She could see the velvety liquid for a moment on her clothes and hands, flooding out of the gut of Severus Snape and onto the ground around them. For a single moment, her knees were pooled in it. Her heart and breath paused, waiting—willing to endure any catastrophe or oblivion.

She blinked... and then again.

And again.

After a minute, her shoulders slumped in relief.

The wand _had_ snapped…. but there was no moving of the earth. Time did not collapse. She was not ripped limb from limb, nor did she dissolve into the blissful nothingness she had craved...

But the wand had snapped, quite neatly—irreparably; and thus… the future was unwritten.

"Gods save us", she hissed cynically to the useless fragments, as she would let the world burn before allowing the past—her past—to be repeated.

She tossed the broken fragments into the gutter and a _pparated_ away.


	5. The Future

**A/N: In memory of Alan Rickman, despite there being no Severus yet. Was this transition too sudden?**

* * *

Chapter Four  
 _The Future_

* * *

 _June 29, 1986_

"Miss Gray."

Hermione stood up and procured her hand promptly to the white-bearded headmaster. She smiled genuinely as she could at Albus Dumbledore, but admitted to herself it was a shock to see him.

Thankfully, she was a practiced Occlumens—if he peeked at her thoughts, he would not be privy to the vision of himself crumpled at the foot of the Astronomy Tower, having been propelled by the killing curse over its edge. Nor would he see the proclamation that his death had been at the hand of his precious spy. Nor would have any way to analyze Hermione's continued confusion on whether or not that had been Dumbledore's plan all along or if it had been a true act of malice on Snape's part.

Instead, if he took the liberty, he would see fabricated thoughts, delicate and vulnerable and quite realistic: the blurred face of a man she thought was similar to him that she had met years before in her tutelage in Mexico, the smell of lemons wafting around him and also faintly from her cousin's kitchen in Devon, and a distinct irritation at having been unable to transfigure her robes the perfect way that morning, as well as anxiety that he would think her too forward for having left her scars quite visible for him to see.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," she said politely, and gestured to the refreshments Rosmerta had procured minutes before. The barmaid knew at once what Albus would want—a virgin cocktail of Lemon-flavored Fhizzing Whisbee with mulled raspberries and a sliver of lime—while Hermione, herself, partook in a strictly non-alcoholic pumpkin juice.

The taste reminded her of the happy times with a certain redhead bumbling at her side, at least, rather than the miserable last she and Ronald had spent together. The burn of firewhisky suited her more, but this was a job interview… although she was certain Albus Dumbledore would overlook many things while searching for a Defense instructor, alcohol dependency was not one of them.

"Please, sit," the man urged with a genial wave of his hand. He was a powerful wizard, Hermione knew, and she obeyed him without hesitation.

After all, he needn't know that she was more powerful than him and ten times more vicious. He needed to believe she was harmless, if a little damaged, and in need of new work to distract her from her downtrodden life. If there was one thing that the teachers at Hogwarts had in common it was that they were all quite lost in life—misfits, the lot of them.

Hagrid, expelled for a crime he did not commit and ostracized for being "half-breed"; McGonagall, widowed, ridiculed for her "feminist" tendencies; Flitwick, another "half-breed"; Lupin the werewolf, Trelawney the pitiful seer, Filch the squib…

But there were also others who seemed to fit all too well into their Cursed profession: Quirrell, the willing bearer of the dark-lord; Umbridge, the sadistic racist toad of a witch; Lockhart, the fraudulent money-mongering idiot.

And now, Harmony Gray: the time-traveler with nothing and everything to lose.

"Well, my dear," he spoke with a tight smile; his eyes were glittering, but he seemed uneasy, "You have applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position?"

Hermione nodded. She could feel his eyes on the scars she had only just barely hidden with the faintest of glamour. They peeked out of the neat, navy blue robes she had transfigured from a dress she had bought months previous. If he saw past the shimmery magic (which he no doubt would, considering who the wizard was), he would know the burns for what they were truly.

The fact that she survived the fiendfyre was enough for him to believe her capable of defending _herself_ against dark arts... the fact that she did not hide them completely for him was enough to lead him to believe that she was desperate enough for the job.

She had agonized about it, but Pandora had agreed that they would show the right amount of strength and brokenness that would lead her to fit right in at the staff table.

"And what qualifies you for such a position?"

She acknowledged the scar with gentle fingers tracing the curve of her jaw—her fingers twitched as she brushed over the tender flesh of her throat and she halted; it was all a show, and her eyes were cast downward as she returned her hands to her lap and spoke, "I've been face to face with dark magic more times than I care to count, and I've lived—so there's that."

It was a very Harry thing to say—it made her smile absently and she looked up at the headmaster to share it with him.

He nodded and smiled in return, "Yes, well… we do what is necessary in the face of adversity. What qualifies you to _teach_ defense, my dear… besides personal experience?"

It was Harmony Gray speaking, and not Hermione, although in the past few months the two had become one and the same, "I enjoy children, although I am proud to say that I am quite stern when it is necessary. I have high expectations academically—for myself and others. Although I am well-versed in the detainment, care, and expulsion of dark creatures—I have faced transformed werewolves, as well as other far more heinous creatures. The reason I have survived is one from luck and also because I am a creature of research."

He quirked a brow—it was all too similar to _Him_ and she shifted uncomfortable to gaze at the wall behind him instead.

"I am also quite adequate at dueling, or at least my…" she paused for dramatic effect and barely concealed the grimace that followed, " _fellows_ at Magna Calderon would agree. I have great hope that I will able to instill this talent in the children of Hogwarts by employing a duelling club."

His brows lifted, "Forgive my assumptions; I had assumed you were British."

She quirked a brow, "Then I would have attended Hogwarts and you would have remembered me, sir. No, while my blood _is_ English, I was born in France—my mother was a Squib, you see. Her name was Angeline Bellerose—"

"Bellerose?" He murmured to himself, "Cousins of the Rowles?"

Hermione nodded, "A relative offered me refuge in Britain when I found myself alone and destitute. When we were children and when my mother brought us to meet, Pandora had a way of inspiring joy in others and so I found myself quite willing to take her up on the offer to join her family in Devon."

She quirked the corner of her lip, proud of her fabricated little memory, "Well, anyway, to continue, my mother was a Squib and my father was a no-mag—I'm sorry, a Muggle; Alexander Gray, an American. They traveled often, leaving me sometimes in the care of my magical relatives and other times with my Muggle relations in America. I've spent most of my childhood in Britain, hence my accent."

He did not interrupt.

"I studied at Magna Calderon for the first two years of my schooling, but when my mother died, I was brought by my father to live with his parents in America so he could continue his work. Briefly, I was allowed to study at Salem Academy. My Muggle relatives, however, were not as accommodating when he, too, passed away a half of a year later—when they discovered I was a witch, they tried to send me to a… _neutralization_ camp during the summer of my fourth year."

The headmaster's eyes widened in surprise, but he refrained from interjecting. Witch hunting was a common problem in the Americas—it was a likely story and would explain how she had not had any real qualifications beneath her belt.

"Thankfully, I was able to send word to a friend at school, but I was caught and marked by the witch hunters," she pulled back her sleeve, where she revealed the very carefully altered word. "Mudblood" now read "Sorceress"—this was not a glamour she intended him to see beyond, but it was useful to her advantage.

"I had heard that the Americans had difficulties with such… prejudices," the headmaster agreed.

She nodded sadly, "I stayed in the camp for as long as I could… somehow, I had convinced myself that I was deserving of the torture. I was ridiculed for my heritage, my foreignness, and my rather big mouth—which unfortunately, I learned none too quickly to control. This was nothing. I survived and escaped, but I did not return to Salem Academy—I could not. There are laws that would have led me back to my Muggle heritage... so I ran. Forgive my candor, Headmaster, but I can provide no documentation of my mastery of magic as I have none."

The man's eyes twinkled, but he inclined his head, and allowed her to continue, "I have worked the odd job, but mostly I have taken care of myself. I would rather not specify any further abuses I have suffered, but there were times when I feared for my life, when I felt unsafe, when I felt I had to fight for my freedom and my right to exist."

She sucked in a breath and then released it, "If you'll have me, of course, I will do my best to protect the students of Hogwarts from the same tragedies that befell me."

"I have no doubt…" he seemed pensieve, and stroked his beard, "Forgive me; it seems I have wasted your time. I have already promised the position to someone else."

Hermione feigned disappointment—she had already known as such. She didn't need to be the Defense teacher, not yet… she wouldn't accept it, of course, until she had broken the curse Tom Riddle had placed upon it so many years prior, when it had been denied to him. She had no desire to be ousted, ostracized, or murdered while holding it... but she also would not allow it to be held by anyone incompetent-at least not for very long.

"That being said, my dear," he continued, "I empathize with your current situation. There is another position, if you would still have us. I assume you are equally qualified for it."

Hermione looked thoughtful, her brow furrowed, but hopeful as well, "Which subject is that?"

"Muggle Studies," he answered, looking at her over his half-moon glasses.

She made a face of surprise, hesitated, then deflated, "It's not my first choice, obviously, but I'll take it. I have no better option."

He took her hand, shook it, "Then I look forward to seeing you again on August 1st; we will have a staff meeting to welcome you and Professor Dagworth back to Hogwarts. Please prepare an outline of your lesson plans and a few samples beforehand."

" _Thank you_ , Headmaster Dumbledore."

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Gray."

When she was alone, she summoned a bottle of Ogden's and traced the rim with her fingertip. The glamour fell away, allowing her the peace to disappear into the amber liquid—she sagged against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling as she drank, wondering when she had succumbed to this maddening plan and if, somewhere, some-when, Severus Snape—the one who had died for her—approved.

She would never know, however—she had erased him forever from this time , or so she had come to believe. It had come as a shock to her… but there had never been a Professor Gray at Hogwarts—at least, from the few memories he had _graciously_ bestowed upon her, there was no possible way, in his mind, that she had ever existed. Not to mention, she had read Hogwarts: A History enough times to confirm every professor to teach within the last century, at the very least.

Hermione bitterly threw back a swig of the drink, swallowing the remainder whole. There was much to be done.


	6. Preparing

**A/N: I love this story, because I feel like there is no pressure to write it. That's horrible of me to say, but it comes out easier when I am not pushing it... I expect the next chapter will actually be posted soon.**

Chapter Five  
 _Preparing_

 _July 29, 1986_

Pandora had already shed her Unspeakable robes and donned the flowing shawl she preferred to wear when she was home. Despite having just arrived a handful of minutes before (and slightly later than was typical for her), she appeared perfectly content and comfortable. No doubt Luna had already showered her with kisses and shown her each and every drawing she had made with Hermione earlier that afternoon.

"Hello," she greeted her guest, smoothing the sad expression away from her knowing silver eyes.

Like her daughter, Pandora had something to give her that day. In the pureblood witch's delicate, willowy hands, she held a delicately wrapped package, one Hermione recognized as having come from Madame Malkin's. On her narrow, beautiful face she wore a gentle, encouraging smile, even when the golden-skinned witch skeptically surveyed the gift.

"Robes?"

"Just a little something new for your big day," she announced, sweeping into the room with bouncing silvery hair and shining eyes.

The recovering witch stared at the parcel and crossed her arms uncomfortably—she was mildly pained still, even so long after her injuries. However, she was far from invalid, and had already begun to train rigorously… although her role would be significantly subdued as Muggle Studies teacher, she did not plan on being passive forever. She would need to be fit if she wanted to consider herself worthy of the post she was planning to snake out from underneath Norvel Dagworth, a renowned dueling master.

As much as the prospect of changing the world one belief at a time would have suited a younger version of herself, she was no longer that Hermione Granger… most moments of the day, at least. Harmony Gray had plans for the Muggle Studies program which included complete reform, but such a design would need a person who was more devoted to the task: Andromeda Tonks, perhaps, if she could manage to convince her.

"You didn't have to—"

"Nonsense," the woman insisted nonchalantly, "I know you want to play the part of the kick-arse witch, but for vanity's sake, I thought it couldn't help to look smashing for your first staff meeting. Considering what you desire to accomplish, it might be a good idea to put on a show for some of your colleagues _and_ superiors… Besides, you are my _cousin—_ I'm supposed to take care of you. While I might have lowered my status by marrying a half-blood, I have a reputation to uphold in the circle of modern fashion."

Hermione's brow tilted upward—that was a bit far-fetched, coming from a woman whose sense of style consisted of shawl-like robes, bangles, and Muggle bandanas when she wasn't wearing her ministry uniform. As she stared, Pandora's eyes fell to glance at the bare skin of her shoulder, exposed to the air as the weight of any fabric was agony for her—the flesh was no longer raw, but glossy and clean, hardly noticeable when she applied a few glamoring spells.

Hermione turned her face away, back to her reflection. She had kept her natural bone-structure—it was far too difficult and dangerous to change it permanently with potions or magic. To compensate, she had adopted sleeker hair with the assistance of a charm that Pandora had learned from her Bellerose mother. Her curls were less wild, glossy, and the lighter color suited her. At times, it was still wavy and unkempt, especially just after waking, but when she wanted it could be rather… pretty.

Her skin had now returned to golden, a product both of her darker-skinner Muggle mother (who had inherited most of her looks from her North African father rather than her Caucasian French mother) and from spending afternoons in Pandora's gardens. Along her nose her skin was also slightly freckled, but they were hardly noticeable unless one was looking for them.

All in all, her face was less jagged and sharp as it had been when she first arrived, although there was an angular nature that would never be removed from her jaw and cheeks. Even her frame was fuller— _healthier_ , she corrected, as the muscles were still lean and her stomach was still tight and flat. Given that she was dedicated to physical fitness, having survived on it for nearly a decade, she doubted she could ever allow her body to slip into any sort of disrepair.

Still, she was slightly vain enough to admit that the curves she had earned had only been diminished by hunger and grief. Now that she was not running for her life or in hiding, the fleshiness had returned around her hips and most definitely in her breasts.

A small, sad smiled quirked at her lips… Ron, the only man she had ever been with exclusively, would have enjoyed this version of her, had he lived. She rather enjoyed it herself, if she were being honest.

"Thank you," Hermione interjected as the witch held out the gift to her. She owed this woman enough already. Without her, she might not be as grounded as she was today.

"It's truly nothing," the witch said, seemingly understanding the depth of gratitude which her guest felt. She tilted her head interestingly—she wanted to see them in action, of course.

Hermione felt the weight of her eyes and grew slightly uncomfortable. At a quirked brow from the witch beside her, she relented.

When she donned the robes, she found herself sparing a ghost of a smile to her reflection. The clothing was professionally styled: a decidedly Muggle pencil skirt paired with an overlay of untraditionally cut waist-length 'robes', both which were the color of soft charcoal. The fit of the straight high-waist skirt hugged her curves in a respectful, dignified manner. Graciously, the seam at the side could easily be charmed to freedom, should she need to run—it comforted her that Pandora had thought of such a thing.

The overlay of robes definitely would allow freedom of wand movement in the arms, as it boasted sleeves which were attached to the vest-like bodice with its six symmetrical fat buttons. The cut reminded her slightly of the uniforms she had seen the Beauxbatons girls wear in her fourth year at Hogwarts, but without the silky flair of ribbons in a garish color.

Beneath the vest and robe, she wore a crisp white and pleated shirt, buttoned to her neck and wrists to hide all of her scars. The vertical lines and stark white complimented the rough texture of the charcoal, and the crisp, cotton fabric hugged the slenderness of her arms.

After she had adjusted the collar to be a tad tighter and made the skirt shorter to compliment her petite legs, Pandora summoned a pair of shoes from her own wardrobe. Hermione quirked a brow at the offer of heels— _Slytherin_ _green,_ of all colors.

"What?" Pandora said sweetly, "I was young when I purchased them… it was a phase, or so I tell myself."

"I was not passing judgement—I merely wondered if they might perhaps be too…"

"Dangerous? Please, there are so many charms on these things you'd probably be able to fight better in them," at her uncertain expression, Pandora continued, "Oh, be reasonable—you did say you wanted to make an impression on a certain dark haired wizard."

Hermione winced, "I said I wanted to make an impression, but I fully intend for our relationship to reside well within the realms of professionalism," Hermione admitted with a blush, "He was my professor, after all—that's enough reason for me to avoid anything… more."

"Age is but a number," Pandora insisted.

Hermione snorted, "In my case—literally. But it's more the principle, for me."

"Regardless, heels are professional _and_ sexy—and these ones are bloody comfortable," Pandora said with a quirk of her lips, "What could it hurt?"

Hermione scowled. She should not have shared that she needed to get close to Snape. But she could not help but want to vent to someone: who better than Pandora? (It wasn't as if there was anyone else, besides her… odd husband).

With a wave of her wand, the heels flickered from green to black. With another they changed to a tasteful dark burgundy color.

"Subtlety was never my forte," she admitted with a charming smile, "I suppose I didn't need it. Xeno required blatant admission of my affections, and I only ever had eyes for him."

"Circe knows why," Hermione muttered.

"I resent that, Harmony!" Pandora interjected with a swat on her arm, "Just because you don't like them a bit barmy—"

"A bit?" Hermione teased.

Pandora pursed her lips in distaste.

Hermione laughed, "Don't get me wrong, Pandora—being involved with Xeno would be far more appealing than attempting to… seduce," she said the word as if it were a curse, "Severus Snape. I'd much rather date a blast-ended skrewt than either of them, to be honest… no offense to your tastes."

At that, Pandora's expression softened, "I disagree: to see you with Xeno would be far less believable, in my opinion, than to imagine you with Severus."

"Maybe," Although she had grown to care for the man, she still could not disconnect her past from her present where it concerned him. They were distant with each other more often than not—for Pandora's sake, they were tolerable, "But perhaps that is because you were made for each other rather than the fact that Severus and I are totally incompatible."

At that, Pandora seemed pensieve.

Hermione slipped the shoes on to adjust them to the proper size. She admitted, grudgingly, that they were quite comfortable—lighter than any other pair of shoes she'd ever worn. To think, all these years, she could have been wearing heels while fighting Death Eaters instead of worn through trainers.

After appraising them, her blonde companion wondered aloud, "Do you think he will believe your story?"

Hermione snorted, "Snape? I can't honestly say… we were never exactly close, except for those last moment. You likely knew him better than I ever did."

They had been only two years separated at Hogwarts, after all, Pandora being two years older than him.

"I know little to nothing about him, except that he was not exactly… approachable."

"Then not much changed," Hermione joked.

Pandora didn't seem comforted by the knowledge, and merely scrunched her nose in dismay.

Hermione shared the sentiment. Severus Snape had stolen her freedom, had prevented her from the death she had wanted, and even today he was getting in her ruddy way. She had only seen the parts of him he had wished to share… and, in the end, it had only been snippets, so wrought with emotion that she could not remove the man she had hunted for years from the one whom she had held while he bled out in her arms.

"I'm just hoping he won't jump immediately into trying Legilimency to test me, but if that's what it will take, I suppose I will have to expose my deepest secrets to him."

Even when she had found the courage to be able to look at his memories, they made no sense to her. The visions were jumbled, confusing—a puzzle that she could not solve without his personal input to decipher.

It was purposefully deceptive, and she should have expected no less from the duplicitous man.

Although he had sent her to the past to… well, do whatever would need to be done to destroy all of the Horcruxes, including the one in Harry's scar (without killing him), he did not trust her to do it without him.

 _Controlling git_ , she decided of him.

The look on Pandora's face was troubled, "Hermione… it's not going to be easy getting close to him. I've heard rumors from old classmates about his… er, habits—"

"Pandora… I know what I'm signing up for," the golden witch said dismissively. The man had shown her them himself in his memories. He at least wanted her to be prepared for his… complications, "Believe me, if I could do this without him, I would."

Her silver counterpart seemed to recede into her own thoughts once more, but she reached out a hand to grasp her arm in comfort.

If the rumors _were_ true, and she knew they were from his own blurred memories, then getting close to Severus Snape would require a lot of work on her part—emotional work, as well as not.

"Perhaps it would be best to merely be forthright with him?"

Hermione shook her head, "I cannot afford him going to Dumbledore—that man will sacrifice all of us in a heartbeat if it meant Voldemort would be defeated… and I know that from firsthand experience. He will pick through my mind for every useful bit of information and as devoted as I am, I do not want to share everything unless it is absolutely necessary… even with Snape. His future self would have agreed."

Pandora frowned.

She continued her case, "If I am honest with him in the beginning, he will tell the headmaster my purpose and I will be nothing more than his puppet. I need him to trust me first, if I am to have any chance of keeping Harry and the Weasleys out of this—if I want to keep your daughter out of it. I have knowledge that can prevent this war from ever starting, Pandora... but I'm missing a few pieces of the puzzle. Snape is the only one who can help me unravel them."

The witch no doubt wanted to tell her that she did not have to do this alone, but the argument had been made so many times it needn't be said again. Hermione and she shared a look of mutual acknowledgement.

"I suppose you're the best woman for such a dangerous job," Pandora admitted.

Hermione shrugged out of the robes carefully, flicking her dual-core wand to hang them up neatly for her to don them in the morning.

As she stripped naked with a couple winces when the crisp white shirt clung to her shoulders, Pandora flashed her a strange look, "It might be easier than you think, getting him to trust you. Severus' always been rather fond of bossy, intellectual women—maybe, if you play your assets right, he might… fall into you?"

Hermione opened her mouth to object at the very idea—she didn't' want to shag the poor man, she just wanted him to trust her. If that took a bit of flirting in the beginning, then so be it…

But it was wrong to ask of more. The duplicity alone would be difficult for her to maintain. She was not a heartless person, unremoved from… relationships.

"He's not my type," she argued, thinking of Ron with his gangly limbs and shock of red hair. Her type was loving and gentle and dopey. Far from Severus Snape, despite the initial devotion she had felt for him after he had sent her to this godforsaken time.

"I didn't say you had to be sincere," Pandora admitted with a soft smile.

Hermione turned, hiding a blush from her. She had become a ruthless woman before. Could she do it again?

 _Nothing to lose_ ¸ a voice reminded her.

It sounded less like Neville and more like _him_ every day.

"It's just a thought. Dinner will be ready in ten," Pandora cut off her protesting, kissed her cheek, and turned. By the time Hermione had stopped sputtering, the blonde was already well on her way to help Xeno prepare Luna for supper.

When she glanced back in the mirror at her semi-naked body, she frowned… yes, she was intelligent, and perhaps bossy. But she did not fit the bill of Severus Snape's tasteful affections—touching olive-skinned fingertips to her honey and chestnut curls, she found little that could compare to the tall, porcelain-skinned Lily Evans Potter.

While Harry's mum had been a contrast of scarlet and titian against alabaster flesh, Hermione was a plain consistent solution of brown and gold, complete with a short, athletic body just barely ripe for the picking. Her only redemption, perhaps, was that she was fuller-breasted than she had been as a girl.

Lily had been willowy and perfect, naturally feminine and delicate in ways she could only dream of, with curves in all the right places and eyes that could lure men to their deaths. Beyond that, from the few moments he'd shared with her that tragic night, she'd felt his devotion to her, body and soul. Whether she was beautiful or young, ugly or old, he would have given anything to have had her back, in the future and more than likely today, in this time.

To feel such love—without doubt, without condition—was numbing to someone who had never felt it before. And, although Ron had been precious, Hermione had _never_ felt that way about anyone… she had loved, but she'd never _loved._ Not like him.

Perhaps it was the best, then, that she was the exact opposite of what Severus Snape preferred in women. It would have been a hopeless effort anyway—if he had loved her twenty-five years after her death, what hope would she have to snatch him only five after the fact?


	7. The Abyss

**A/N: Warning. Very obvious drug-abuse is present in this chapter. If you have any objections to this, please do not read this chapter, or any further. Thank you.**

* * *

Chapter Six  
 _The Abyss_

 _July 29, 1986_

Narcissa Black Malfoy glanced over her husband's shoulder. Perched near a gargantuan fireplace was the long, emaciated figure of her oldest and probably only friend. He was wearing black from head-to-toe, ever the saturnine shadow, his harshness made harsher by the burning glow of the fire. Dark eyes peered into the flames, making him appear contemplative. Beside him was a witch whom she knew had recently acquired a fortune from her old, dead husband, speaking towards him and hardly realizing that he was far away, lost in the fire, impervious to her chattering, painted lips.

It was a pity. Not only was she wealthier than him, but she was also far prettier, with glossy brunette hair and eyes like sapphires. Next to the dark, imposing figure which he cut so finely, despite the harshness of his face, she was soft and warm and inviting. Severus, however, did not care for softness or lightness: he was suited for darkness.

Still, as his eyes peered into the flames, she knew that he craved the light more deeply than he would ever admit to another. It made him all the more of a tragic figure, and all the more interesting. Narcissa, in particular, had been fascinated by him from the beginning: when she was a third year and he was a firstie. Once she'd scrubbed away all the muck from his upbringing, he was a quite cultured, interesting man. She'd known it from the beginning, hence why she had demanded her betrothed take him under his wing. It was the first time she'd ever spoken to Lucius of her own accord.

 _"I think you should keep your eye on that one."_

 _"Snape?" Lucius said after he had gotten over the fact that she'd actually decided to speak to him, "Why? What use would a nameless first-year's loyalty serve me?"_

 _"He will be useful… and you will do it because I ask it of you."_

Lucius knew better than to anger her. If anything, he was afraid of what she would make Bella do to him, or that she would convince her father to break their betrothal. Regardless, he'd listened, and they'd bonded over the little project, even if at first Lucius had been skeptical.

Her husband had been wary of her all of his life, considering their four year age gap and her inital... resistance to their match, but once he'd realized she had an eye for talent, i.e. for Severus Snape, he'd warmed up to her. Eventually, after a few tumultuous years, he'd grown affectionate of her… that was enough for Narcissa, at least where it concerned Lucius. It wasn't as if she loved him back.

Unfortunately, her husband found Severus equally as arresting as she did, if not more so (which she supposed was her fault, but she digressed). She had learned long ago not to let it get to her that her husband was far more obsessed with their little charity case than he ever would be with her.

Lucius had a larger appetite than she did—to restrict him would be cruel, and she had long ago accepted that marrying him would be far more difficult than not. Being the Slytherin that she was, she could forgive him for being of a similar nature: he could not help it, just as she could not help succumbing to the weaknesses of motherhood and sentiment.

One of the few things they agreed on was Severus: that they loved him, in their separate ways and together, and wanted the best for him.

Still, she was a Slytherin… while she would love for their pet to fall into a woman like the one who was now draping herself over his arm in earnest, she also felt a twinge of jealousy when the woman touched his arm and he turned, ever so slightly, to face her. Narcissa knew he required much more than lust or circumstance, neither of which she, herself, could give him, truly. Severus was a strange beast, a half-devil who craved the grace of angels, and she blamed him for making her so fascinated with him.

Not only was he a reserved creature, by nature, but behind closed doors he was insatiable for affection. The desire for touch had consumed them both for a long time, when they were young and he had been trying to first, eradicate his desire for another witch, and then, to irritate her future husband after some row they'd had (she faintly recalled it involving a bet of some sort in Severus' fifth year and her seventh). She also remembered the drunken night when all three of them had made-up, in Severus' sixth year, in a bold attempt for him to unite them together after her and Lucius' disastrous honeymoon.

Both Cissy and Lucius were rather fond of his rather interesting sexual appetites, his keenness for stirring up passion, his eagerness to please. After all, it was because of him that they had been able to jump the hurdle of their relationship and come to terms with each other so comfortably. Without Severus as the catalyst, she and Lucius would be like oil and water, as they had been when they'd first married. But that was years ago, before… well, before everything changed for all of them. Before the dark lord fell, praise Merlin. Severus was a changed man ever since, for many reasons.

At the dawn the new era, he'd fallen into a darkness she feared might hold him forever, and for that she worried over him constantly, especially now with that damnable potion in circulation, no doubt enjoyed immensely by him thanks to her stupid husband. She wondered, not for the first time, if Lucius gave it to him purely to dull his inhibitions… she wouldn't put it past him. But she also knew that her husband did not like to see Severus unhappy any less than she did. He likely thought he was helping, by providing Severus with an outlet.

But the wizard was unhappy, and had been for years, probably his entire life. It was a part of his charm. But it had grown worse since—well. And what Lucius didn't understand was that lack of emotions was not a healthy replacement for happiness, or that he was an entirely different man than Severus. While the _Abyss_ was recreational for Lucius, it meant something entirely different for their delicate Severus.

With the _Abyss_ to numb his pain, it was a wonder that he'd even accepted their invitation to the Midsummer Night's Gala, him having been holed up in that house of his since the beginning of Summer, high out of his mind—but there he was, lingering by the fireplace, now accepting the petting and fawning of Miss Randall, but still looking rather irked with her presence. Still, any emotion he might show was a fraction of what it should have been were he sober.

He didn't feel loneliness, she knew, but he _was_ lonely. He was without a partner… without the affection he so craved, and denying himself the passions which he was so gifted in receiving and giving. So he sought the nothingness of the _Abyss,_ to quiet his desires. To dull the world.

Narcissa couldn't necessarily understand what was so grand about Lily Potter that would make her Severus, once so hungry, suddenly lose his appetite, but she didn't quite understand her own heart let alone his, and she knew what it was like to love someone from afar... to love someone who she could not have. But, even still, it was not in her nature to cling, unlike Severus, who clung to the light even though it so very obviously wanted to escape him.

When he removed the hand of the widow from his arm, she cringed visibly.

"Gods, this is painful to watch," Lucius murmured intimately into her ear, slightly startling her. She'd forgotten he was there.

"He's oblivious," she murmured, glancing at him through cut eyes, chastising him for his public display. His eyes were dilated, of course, "No thanks to you."

Lucius barely smiled, "You are a killjoy."

She scowled at him.

"Come now, Narcissa. There are benefits to this, even if you cannot see them."

"I can see them just fine, Lucius."

He seemed amused at her reaction, "The thought didn't cross your mind, even for old time's sake?"

She was irritated with his smugness and she took a sip of her drink, "No, it did… he already declined."

The smile was wiped from his face and replaced with a scowl—a real one. She left him to his devices and decided she would try to sway Severus again, just to spite him.

·

"You look parched."

She was a buxom brunette with large, piercing blue eyes and two dimpled cheeks. The ring on her finger was evidence that she was either married or widowed. When her hand trailed up his arm with manicured fingers, he decided on widowed.

Besides, her expression was far too blissful for her to be a married woman.

"Hardly," he answered with a reserved sort of a smile. Another might have called it a smirk.

"Let loose a little, Severus," she crooned towards him, squeezing his arm. He hardly felt it—every touch, smell, sight was little more than a phantom of what it should have been.

It was rather… odd to be touched while in his current state and so he took her hand, pushing it away likely more forcefully than he had intended, "Unlike certain individuals, some of us prefer to maintain their dignity in public places."

To be honest, he would have enjoyed her company, under different circumstances, but he didn't think he could perform at all that night. The _Abyss_ had already dulled his senses, so much that he wouldn't have enjoyed himself. What was the point in letting her have all the fun?

"Then let's find ourselves somewhere more private, hm?"

"No."

She gaped at him, then scowled.

Before she could say anything scathing, he turned his back to her, facing the fire. The sight of it was captivating enough—he watched the flames with intensity that another man would never have managed, even in the right state of mind, hoping she would leave him.

A hand, however, pressed against his back. He barely registered it, and wouldn't have at all if the _Abyss_ hadn't already begun wearing off.

Before she could ask him again, he decided that it was time to leave this bloody party. He couldn't stand it when women got desperate. He had enough to last him a few more days, and would come to collect from Lucius in good time, when they're weren't so many bloody annoying people around. Gods, even with the drug, the world was unlikable.

Unfortunately, when he tried to Apparate too hastily, his magic suddenly strained, making a loud _popping_ sound in his ear. The fire burned higher, or perhaps he had imagined it, and a part of him registered that something was wrong.

He tried to move his arm, but it did not budge.

 _Fuck_.

"Severus, are you out of your mind? You've splinched yourself!"

"Obviously," he said, although, in fact, it was not obvious. His dark eyes dropped to stare at his arm, where his flesh had split all the way to the bone. Then he looked up and found an entirely different woman in front of him. Had she shape-shifted?

No, no… Narcissa must have slipped into Miss Randall's place while he was occupied with his thoughts.

Her full mouth pouted, "Were you trying to run away from me?"

"Never," he crooned towards her.

The look that crossed her face was difficult to decipher. She was always good at hiding her emotions, especially from others, but she never did so with him. He frowned at her, wondering why she would do so now.

Was she really that angry that he hadn't slept with her, earlier? Perhaps he should have… but he'd hadn't had the urge lately. He hadn't had the urge to do much of anything since the Summer term started. He'd only ever come to this thing because Lucius had promised to provide him with more of what he needed. It was the only thing that made him forget…

He allowed Narcissa to lead him by his good arm into a wing of the ballroom. As soon as they were inside, she began to unbutton his frock coat.

"You are insatiable as ever," he reminded her calmly, feeling no familiar stirring in his body at the notion.

"And you are a bleeding heart fool," she muttered towards him, pulling the coat off more forcefully than she might have. Typically, Narcissa was a reserved woman, even in the bedroom. Poised, even in her most vulnerable state. It had fascinated him in his youth. Now, it almost annoyed him. It was the reason why they could never love one another. They were both too guarded.

Severus bit back a groan of discomfort when she grabbed his arm. Another would have screamed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Being a bleeding heart fool," he retorted evenly.

She refrained from shaking her head at him (an unladylike motion) and continued to peel away layers, and layers, of clothes, until he was bare-chested. Severus didn't seem to mind this fact, despite being characteristically self-conscious. He merely stared ahead, fixated on nothing at all.

With her wand, she began to heal his arm. He registered that it was sort of tingly, although he knew from experience it should have been excruciating.

She asked him, "Do you have any blood-replenishing on you?"

He did. But before he went to reach for it, he drew his dark eyes slowly back towards her, meeting her silver gaze blankly. Something came pecking at the back of his mind, some emotion or another, and he said, "I shouldn't."

"I see," she said with a beautiful scowl. She was a beautiful woman—he had a penchant for beauty. A weakness, actually. It was a great irony, considering he was hardly a beauty himself.

"You disapprove," he noted softly.

"Of course I do."

"Why?"

She wasn't going to play this game with him again, that was clear. He wanted her to love him, but didn't, at the same time. He wanted her to desire him, but didn't want her to when it was inconvenient for him. This was a common occurrence in his life, a product of his shit childhood and violent adolescence. He was a schism of a human being, a creature of division.

Hence, why he used the _Abyss._ His emotions were confusing and unnecessary. And as much as he was gifted in Occlumency, even that had begun to fail him. This... this was easier. Effortless.

Until it wore off.

"Severus, it's nearly the first of August—a month until Hogwarts begins… how are you going to teach like this?"

He rolled his eyes, "With great ease, I imagine."

"Severus, if anyone notices, you'll be fired."

He made a soft noise of annoyance, "He will never fire me."

"The Board might."

"Lucius wouldn't allow it."

In a rare show of frustration, her blond brows lowered, "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Why not?"

She hissed out a breath and said, "She's _dead_ , Severus."

His eyes, black, clouded, turned to hers, "That's the crux of the problem, isn't it?"

"Not really," the witch said, "She never wanted you, anyway."

That should have made him angry, but it didn't. After all, it was true.

"You did," he reached out a hand, touching the back of his knuckles to her forearm.

Narcissa's flesh pimpled at his touch, but she resisted, "You can't go on like this."

"Why?"

"Why not?" she retorted tautly.

"It matters little what I do with my body, or my mind. They don't belong to me, anyway."

"Severus—"

He leaned forward, capturing her mouth in his, stealing away every word. But he tasted different—sickly sweet, rather than minty. She hissed, knowing that he would pass on some of the potions' properties to her. But even when she put both palms against his chest, he did not remove himself, but pulled her closer to him. Only when she pulled her wand on him and pressed it into his throat did he break away.

His dark eyes flashed; at least there was that.

"Kiss me again while you are like this and I will hex you into oblivion."

"You wouldn't."

"I would," she promised.

He huffed out a breath, "I don't understand you."

"You never will," she promised, "Especially not if you let yourself waste away with that drug."

"As I said—"

She silenced him with a piercing glare.

"I expected this behavior from my husband, but not from you," she hissed at him, leaning close enough that their noses nearly touched, "I expected him to walk away with his tail between his legs, to pretend that nothing ever happened—but I thought that you, of all people, would learn from your mistakes—"

"I have learned," he retorted.

"No, Severus, you haven't. You haven't learned anything," she reminded him, "You are still the clingy little boy from first year, lost in a world that you will never have."

"It wasn't so long ago that you were clinging to me," he reminded her, scowling.

"Clinging to your cock, perhaps," she told him with a grim, taunting smirk. At that, his eyebrows flew to his hairline, "Because it was convenient and because I am self-destructive. But I knew from the beginning your heart was off limits."

"Then why do you care?"

"Because, Severus, I care about you… and I know what it feels like to watch someone you love, love another," his expression wavered between indifference and guilt, "And I know what it is like to lose them."

Severus reached out a hand. It wasn't often that Narcissa opened up to him, but when she did... gods, she bloomed like a flower. He could enjoy her, when she was like that, when she was open and welcoming, but she rebuffed him... ever the cold-hearted ice-queen.

"Get your shit together, Severus," she told him stiffly, "Get on with your life."

"You don't own me," he snapped.

"No—but neither does Albus Dumbledore, or the dark lord. And neither does Lily Potter," she reminded him, "Not anymore. It's time you realized that."

"Do you have any other words of wisdom to impart on me?"

"Plenty, but I shall save them for another time, when you're of a mind to actually listen to me."

"Don't wait on bated breath for that, Cissy."

She rolled her eyes, "As if I would."

He snorted again, then grabbed his shirt and began to put it on. She watched him dress, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. It wasn't so long ago that they were both so young, and hurting, reaching for each other in place of the ones they couldn't have. In another life, they would have been good together. In another world, they could have been whole, together.

But this was not that world.

"Severus…" she began to say, wondering—

A voice interrupted her, "My, my… what have we here?"

Narcissa scowled inwardly. Lucius had terrible timing, as ever.

"No invitation to the VIP party? I am wounded. Honestly, my dearest friend and my wife... I should have known."

"Don't get excited, Lucius," Narcissa turned to glare at him, "Severus was just leaving."

"Come now, Cissy," the Malfoy heir crooned, "What did you do to drive him away, this time? A lecture?"

"Or two," Severus quipped.

She tossed him a spiteful look, then crossed her arms.

"You both deserve each other," she told them both, before she spun on her heel and left them. She only prayed Severus would meet someone who would finally kick some sense into his head and that her husband would be gracious enough to let him go. If not, she feared he would never find peace... and neither would she.


End file.
